


Of Houseplants And Good Books

by annapotterkiku



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Books, Crowley-centric (Good Omens), Domestic, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Nicknames, Not Beta Read, Old Married Couple, Other, POV Third Person, Pet Names, Plants, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Scars, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-05-28 08:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annapotterkiku/pseuds/annapotterkiku
Summary: A collection of unrelated fluff/humor drabbles, mostly Ineffable Husbands for now. I might throw in some Ineffable Bureaucracy, given the opportunity.





	1. 6000 years worth of pet names and whatnot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started, as it always did, with "Crowley".
> 
> (No, not like that this time. He had not done much tempting ever since his permanent discharge from Downstairs, if the tempting of a particular angel were removed from the equation. It amused Crowley greatly to think that he had never been so productive at the job until he was expelled from it. But really, it was not Crowley this time. If anything, it started with Aziraphale.)

It started, as it always did, with "Crowley". 

(No, not like that this time. He had not done much tempting ever since his permanent discharge from Downstairs, if the tempting of a particular angel were removed from the equation. It amused Crowley greatly to think that he had never been so productive at the job until he was expelled from it. But really, it was not Crowley this time. If anything, it started with Aziraphale.)

Of course, after over 6000 years of having his name called out by Aziraphale in all sorts of manners, Crowley thought he had gotten a taste of all the emotions that were bestowed upon his assigned humanoid brain. His favorite, up to the events of this story, were probably all the times the angel softly whispered his name in encouragement after a demonically uncharacteristic good deed. The astonished "Crowley!" exclaims came close, though Crowley would never admit any of that. 

Turned out the Lord truly had ineffable plans. It was a rainy afternoon, much like any other rainy afternoons, except they were curling up into two piles of blankets on Aziraphale's ancient sofa, some baking show droning on and on as they leaned close onto each other's shoulders. It was chilly, but not too chilly that he could be visibly pestered by how the angel's radiant heat was right out of his touch.

As stated above, it was not Crowley this time. Rather, it was Aziraphale.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you hold me?"

Aziraphale's eyes twinkled brighter than ten Siriuses combined. 

It could only go down from there. And it did.

Soon after "Crowley" came "dear". At this point Crowley found it ridiculous. Aziraphale has been calling him "dear" in fifty different variations ever since the word was coined in Old English ("deore" -- horrible sound, but it meant "expensive" and damn right if Crowley were not a luxury few could afford). Plus, usually it meant he was in trouble -- "My dear boy, what have I told you about drinking milk straight from the carton?" (in all the glory of his celestial form, no less, that little drama queen). What difference did it make, just because they now happened to be tangled under the sheets and (finally, after 6000 bloody years) agreeing to become "a thing"?

Apparently, the difference was vast. The difference lied in the angel's tight embrace from Crowley's behind. The difference was in the dusty light of dawn that danced on his pale lashes when he fluttered awake. It slipped into the angel's tone, half-sleepy, half-exasperated, as he softly grumbled, "My dear boy, stop hoarding the blanket to yourself." 

Was it mentioned that things could only go down from there? Because it did.

"Darling" was a tough one for Crowley, with the only two creatures who had ever called him so being Freddie Mercury and Satan himself. He still got chills from a time when it was too hot, too stuffed, too squirming-at-each-other's-feet whenever he heard the phrase. Something devilishly deliberate with the word "darling". Sneering in a way no form of patronization could achieve. Borderline blasphemy. 

(Crowley wonder if Baalberith had invented the word.)

What Crowley did not expect to hear was the word rolling off Aziraphale's tongue so smoothly, if not quite mindlessly. "Can you please heat up my drink, Crowley? And darling, marshmallows on top, too, if you'd please."

The angel was busy, 7 different copies of the Good Book rotated swiftly on his customized bookwheel (1574 made, northern red oak, kept in tip-top condition). He needed a cocoa. Nothing unusual about that, except Crowley almost snapped his rose-shearing scissors in half and went weak at the knees anyway. 

He never heard of a word more endearing, more virtuous and divine. 

But wait, it got worse. Much worse.

Soon after the scissors and cocoa accident, there was the

"Sweetheart, won't you come to bed?" 

(It was not Crowley's fault that he was only 200 points away from entering Rainbow City, but the pure guilt made him throw away the phone and slithered in without missing a beat.)

Then the

"That's my sweet boy. You'll tell me if you're uncomfortable, won't you?"

(He was more flushed than sore in matters of seconds. A couple more of those at the breakfast table the morning after, and the morning after quickly needed an afternoon after.)

Which soon led to the

"Gorgeous, what's wrong?"

(He could barely croaked out the response. Suddenly the nickname "Angel" felt so inadequate.)

And the

"Good morning, handsome."

And the

"Light of my life, I miss you, too."

And the

"Every second I spent with you is a gift, love."

And finally, the nail on Crowley's coffin, the infamous

"My husband and I--"

And

And

And

...

Like mentioned, it could only go down from there. And it did, just as Crowley thought he could not have fallen any deeper. An occult creature of Hell falling for the gospel words of an ethereal being. Truly, ineffable plans and what not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yall know once aziraphale is committed, he goes ALL OUT with terms of endearment, right? like, 6000 years worth of pet names and what not. rip crowley. big f.


	2. the thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Angel, can you get me that thing over there?"

"Angel, can you get me that thing over there?" said the serpent, voice muffled from inside the lazy pile of his serpent form. 

"Which one, dear?" said the angel, taking a break from his current read to scan around the room, for he did not know what thing was being referred to. 

"The thing. The one with the-- the thing with the wings and the other--" replied the serpent, slurring towards the end, as he always did when he was drunk, ill, or exhausted. This evening, it might have been all three.

"Crowley, dear, I'm afraid you'd have to be a little bit more specific than that," the angel gently scolded, eyes still looking out for something with wings that the serpent might have needed. His phone, perhaps, with devil wings on its case. Or the customized copy of Agnus Nutter's book, devilishly decorated and generously gifted by Anathema. 

"Just, the thinggggggg. The thing with the white wings and the white lookey and the white feely," the serpent whined. "You know, the _thing_."

"This thing, perhaps?" Asked the angel, already there and stroking a soft palm down the serpent's smooth scales. 

The serpent followed the warmth and made himself comfortable in his angel's lap. Yes, this thing. _His_ thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i suddenly remembered that ONE scene in bbc sherlock in which a drunk sherlock vaguely introduces john as "this is my,,, thing" and it just went downhill from there abxjsnsk


	3. just enough of a bastard to be worth loving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that day, when Hell had gone and all that was left on Crowley's sofa were him and the angel, Aziraphale suddenly gasped in realization.
> 
> "What have I done?" he wailed.
> 
> "Being just enough of a bastard to be worth loving," Crowley snickered, giving his angel another smooch.

Hell was having tea in Crowley's living room.

Rather, Beelzebub and Hastur were having tea in Crowley's living room. Except they were not having tea, but spoiled milk and stale biscuits. Just the way Hell liked it.

"The Treaty is on the table," said Beelzebub. A scroll of parchment paper appeared. "Sign it or die. We will not accept any alternatives."

The insects, including Hastur, buzzed in agreement.

Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically. He was slouching on the sofa in the most comfortable way one could accommodate oneself when Hell decided to visit on a fine Sunday morning, neither invited nor announced. Letting the wretched words of the Treaty enter his mind, Crowley searched for the tiniest loopholes that Hell could use to blast him into nothingness. 

As expected of Hell, the document was full of loopholes. Crowley sighed. This was going to be a long, long day.

"Your Disgraces," Crowley finally said, a thin veil between mocking and respect, after a deliberately exasperating period of time. "Section II, Clause 6 said that the Traitor could--"

"No alternatives," Beelzebub snapped, the flies buzzing louder.

It was right then and there that Aziraphale, the God-send, decided to make an appearance. He was in pajamas (white silk with little angel wings embroidered on the breast pocket), manually put on and carelessly buttoned. The angel went straight to Crowley without a single acknowledgement of Hell's existence in their living room. He was humming a tune. 

"Good morning, love," Aziraphale whispered softly and leaned down. Instinctively, Crowley reached up to give him a peck. 

Hell stared at them. Crowley's heart swelled with an awful glee. The flies were practically roaring, at which point Aziraphale finally turned to the ignored individuals on the opposite side of the coffee table. 

"Oh, good morning, Beelzebub," he said sweetly. "Hastur."

Then the angel promptly exited.

Hell was still glaring at Crowley in utter disgust, for which his heart doubled in size. It was not every day that one could sneer at Hell and got away with it. With his most dignified attempt not to laugh at their faces, Crowley threw out a shit-eating grin and a lazy shrug.

"The irresistibility of a beloved spouse, my gentlepeople. Surely you all share the sentiment," the serpent's lips grew wider, all snake-like. He swore Beelzebub's eyes flinched. 

"Now, about Section II..."

(Later that day, when Hell had gone and all that was left on Crowley's sofa were him and the angel, Aziraphale suddenly gasped in realization.

"What have I done?" he wailed.

"Being just enough of a bastard to be worth loving," Crowley snickered, giving his angel another smooch.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i came up with the sentence "The irresistibility of a beloved spouse, my gentlepeople. Surely you all share the sentiment" for a while and wasnt sure how to make use of it... until now


	4. like being at the beach with bare feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long after the events of the second Great War or even the almost third Great War, when they were sharing a bed and waking up in each other's arms, did Aziraphale finally notice.
> 
> "Crowley, what happened to your feet?"

Long after the events of the second Great War or even the almost third Great War, when they were sharing a bed and waking up in each other's arms, did Aziraphale finally notice.

"Crowley, what happened to your feet?" Asked the angel, a pinch of surprise and dash of worry in his voice. They were on his ancient sofa, the Saturday Soho night bursting with life outside the bookshop, and Aziraphale was fitting in between his demon's legs like two pieces of a puzzle. 

"Oh, those," said the serpent awkwardly. He had forgotten about the old wounds; even the raised scars that ran across the most tender parts of his feet had nicely numbed down a few decades ago.

Aziraphale sat up and caught a calloused, bare foot in his soft hands. The scars did not look recent, though they still potruded in belts of angry red that covered the entire sole. The tips of his toes seemed to suffer the most; they looked burned, charred.

"Oh, my dearest boy," the angel whispered, a bitter lump building in his throat as he realized. "Was this from--?"

"Yep," absentmindedly answered Crowley, confirming his fears. "Consecrated grounds. Lesson learned: you can't actually miracle these away."

Aziraphale let out a whimper. Of course, it was his fault that his serpent had to suffer. If only he had been not so naive, so gullible and stup--

"Don't go around overthinking, Angel," said Crowley, an eyebrow raised, as if he had read his mind. "'Twas a long time ago. Barely feel a thing, nowadays."

"I'm sorry," he apologized anyway. Crowley was only looking at him ever so softly, if not with the tiniest hint of annoyance for ruining the mood. He wondered how many more times Crowley had to risk his life to save him, how many scars and burns and lesions he had managed to miracle away and how many he could not. And his heart ached in gratitude and regret, and love swelled his insides a hundredfold. 

With a swift motion, the angel bowed down and kissed the serpent's feet. 

"Aziraphale," Crowley started, but the angel had stopped him with another kiss, this time on the forehead.

"I love you," smiled the angel, his voice hoarse and his eyes teary as he held his serpent close. "I love you so much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the loveliest piece of fanart by qiuomg @ tumblr
> 
> link to the fanart: https://qiuomg. tumblr. com/post/185589877139


	5. so much for Great Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What do you think you were doing?" the demon growled. "What was that supposed to be?"
> 
> The book stubbornly stared at him, in a way that a book might be staring at a creature of Hell.
> 
> Crowley's blood boiled.

When Aziraphale heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, he wondered if the same principle could be applied to books. After all, were books not made from trees? Surely, some of the life in them must have been preserved, if not enhanced by the words of man. And so he began the experiment right away, starting with his oldest and wisest titles, although "talking" was the perhaps not the most accurate word for what Aziraphale did.

"Oh, aren't you the loveliest cover I've ever laid eyes on! Who's a Good Book? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!!"

Personally Crowley found the notion distasteful. When he first saw the angel stroking an Austen first edition along the spine as if it were a cat, the serpent almost gasped in offense.

"You're making them soft and cocky," he grumbled. "Sitting there thinking they are perfect."

"But they _are_ perfect, dear," replied the angel, putting down the book to grab a bottle of leather polish. "I've always thought you ought to be a little bit more encouraging to your plants. The amount of fear is frankly quite unhealthy, no matter how much love you're putting into it."

"Don't say the L-word in front of them," hissed Crowley. He then gave his own greens a deathly glare, just to make sure they hadn't got any odd ideas slithering up their little brainless bodies. The plants shivered.

"Keep doting on them, Angel, and just you see," he proudly declared. "One day they'll be walking on their own flaps and demanding nightly lullabies."

"Lullabies!" exclaimed the angel excitedly. "What an excellent idea! Thank you, love."

Crowley could only look at him in disbelief.

Alas, Crowley's theory was finally proven true on a Friday night, when they chose to opt in with Chinese delivery and two of Aziraphale's selected works (Dickens for Aziraphale and Socrates for "I-don't-read" Crowley). As the angel turned a page, the 1843 copy of _Great Expectations_ gave him a cut.

"Aha!" proclaimed the demon when he heard the angel's gasp. "Rebels, I tell you."

"Oh, Crowley, it was just an accident," replied the angel. He laid the book down next to his cocoa, bleeding index finger carefully steered clear from the yellow pages, and stood up. "I'll go put a bandage on this. Just bought the cutest ones the other day. They have dinosaurs!"

Crowley lazily watched until the angel was behind closed doors, at which point he immediately jumped out of his seat and went for the little shit.

"What do you think you were doing?" the demon growled. "What was _that_ supposed to be?"

The book stubbornly stared at him, in a way that a book might be staring at a creature of Hell.

Crowley's blood boiled. "You ungrateful brat," if his voice could freeze the room. "You absolute rascal. How _dare_ you look at me like that? Have you no idea what he has done for you?" he shook the book maniacally. "And what have you given him? PAIN."

All the plants in the room cowered in fear. The books, all of them, were disturbingly silent, and if Crowley could throw each and every one of them into the deepest of Hell and watch their crusty covers turn into ashes, he would. But then he heard Aziraphale coming.

"So much for _Great Expectations_ ," Crowley sneered, practically slamming the book back to its place. The ingrate was as still as a bloody ox. He slid back onto the sofa when the angel stepped in.

"Look, dear, isn't this such a delightful design?" cheered Aziraphale, showing off his dinosaur bandage.

The angel's beam fell short as he saw his book just a tiny bit more battered, and Crowley on the other side, heaving.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing is going on," replied Crowley in an instant, a thin smile on his lips, golden eyes blinking in innocence. "Whatever could have been going on?"

The angel looked at him, round-eyed. There was a beat, and then another beam bloomed on his face again."Oh, alright. How far in have you got to?"

"Just enough to realize Socrates was a bastard," answered Crowley. He was. The serpent had met him. "Let me take a look at that bandage you've been raving about, won't you?"

And so they spent a solid half hour on the wonderful designs of modern bandages, which led to a whole night of stories after discussions after acnedotes. On the coffee table _Great Expectations_ sat, quiet and abandoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by speremint's wonderful comic! you could see their artwork here: https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/185967865775/you-ever-just-draw-something-so-stupid-and-be


End file.
